


Winter Roses

by erolyn2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erolyn2/pseuds/erolyn2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa returns to Winterfell at last, with new dreams for her future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Written for one of the Valentine's prompts at Game of Ships. And also for SecondStarOnTheLeft, whose awesome writing got me interested in this pairing.

Winterfell is not at all how she remembers it. Seeing the high stone walls cracked and falling, the rooftops half burned away, the grey-and-white banners disappeared, stirs the same fury that had burned her when Robin Arryn destroyed her castle of snow.

 _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ But there has not been, not for years, despite her parents’ care to produce enough heirs to secure their lordship. _All the plans and dreams of centuries, come to dust_.

And yet she hopes – _must_ hope – that there is something still left to rebuild. To protect.

Sansa turns to her husband behind her, his eyes struggling to conceal the pity he knows she hates. He will be the Lord, technically, but she will be the Stark in Winterfell. _I must be the face of my people. The strength of the North._

She has sent for Rickon in Skaagos, has sent scouts to find her sister if she can still be found, but for now there is only her. The Lone Wolf, they call her, and yet for the first time since the death of her father, Sansa feels she is not alone.

Willas has ridden behind her all the way from Highgarden, careful not to speak too much, careful not to push at the walls she must erect in order to stand the thought of returning home. 

If Winterfell _is_ still home. 

She loves Highgarden, the beauty and comfort and surrealness of it, but more than anything she loves the home she finds in her husband’s arms. He is so like the prince she once dreamed of, tall and handsome and gentle, but for the times he stumbles on the stairs, or lowers himself, grumbling, into his chair. Not a perfect prince, but _her_ prince nonetheless.

It was always intended to be a political match. After Alayne had disposed of Littlefinger and restored control to the lord of the Vale until her cousin came of age, she could think of only one family who might be willing to consider her an ally and who had not yet murdered any of her kin. So she had ridden for Highgarden. It was only a political match, and he was only a tool to her, a safe haven…yet somehow, despite her intent, it had become so much more. 

Perhaps it was her husband’s quiet calm, the way he coaxed her demons to the surface with such patience, perhaps it was the realization that despite her best efforts she could find nothing in him to mistrust, but somehow over the months the stone cracked and Alayne became Sansa again. A Tully, a Stark, and a Tyrell all at once, but most of all a woman ready to accept her duty and her birthright and to weather the long winter with a hope of spring to come. 

Alayne Stone was hard and cold but strong, ready to be a leader and to take back what had been stolen from her. Sansa Stark – the girl who now seemed little more than a memory – might have been the sort of Queen the realm admired: a kind and proper lady, but weak and brittle. _Breakable_. Alayne Stone could not love, and Sansa Stark could not rule. 

But Sansa Tyrell managed to find the best in both of them, with the help of the sort of man she had believed did not exist outside of songs and stories. Now she will be the one to protect the North, and none will ever know how love has saved her. 

When night falls she waits in the Lord’s chamber, the room that has always been her parents'. Where her mother once ran long fingers through her hair in the mornings, where as a babe she had hidden between the sheets during summer storms, curled into her father’s strong arms. Sansa had never thought it might be hers. 

Willas’ arms wind around her, pressing her hands against the stone ledge of the window as he leans as little of his weight into her as he can manage. She can see nearly everything from her tower: the yards and the stables, the broken walls, even the Godswood in the distance. _So much to rebuild_. 

She turns into her husband’s embrace, accepts the press of his mouth on hers. A better view, she decides, than the flaws of her ruined house. Sansa takes him to the bed – what she must force herself to think of as _their_ bed – and lets the ghosts of Winterfell fade into dreams of a warmer future, a castle where a young girl may once again sleep safe and loved. 

Perhaps in summer she will plant roses in the walls, just to see what might grow.


End file.
